


Trapped

by Seaneta



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Annoyed Hannibal Lecter, But Will isn't having it, But written semi-seriously, Community: hannibalkink, Crack, Gen, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal tries to calm Will down, Kink Meme, Minor Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Trapped, Urination, Will Figures It Out, Will throws Hannibal's books, some foul language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-06 22:24:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4238790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seaneta/pseuds/Seaneta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you want to talk about what you found?”<br/>“Your murder doodles?” Will was mockingly oblivious, pointing a thumb toward the cluster of sheets. “Did you want me to find them?” </p>
<p>Hannibal, though calm, let a prominent frown grace his features. He gestured to the mess throughout his office. “Not particularly. No.”</p>
<p>OR<br/>Will Graham is having a bad day. It only gets worse when he finds out his good friend is the Chesapeake Ripper. Panicked, he barricades himself in Hannibal Lecter’s office library.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trapped

**Author's Note:**

> I browsed through some old Hannibal kink meme prompts and stumbled across this awesome, funny idea: "Will is in Doctor Lecter's office, up in the library, waiting for the man to arrange some notes, when he accidentally finds the drawings of the Chesapeake Ripper's victims. Of course he links everything, but then the doctor calls him from the low ground. Will knows that, despite his best efforts, the signs of the discovery are pretty evident on his face, and he doesn't need a lot of imagination to know what Hannibal is going to do. So he does the only thing he can do.  
> He pushes down the ladder and barricades himself up in the library."
> 
> I wrote this pretty seriously at first, then decided to have fun with it. Glad I did.  
> I hope you enjoy reading this, because I enjoyed writing this kind of story!

**7:00PM**

 “The victim died of a broken neck and severed spine. He was hung, carefully, in plain view of the road just a few yards away. Signs show that he did this willingly. I see no markings that suggest a struggle.”

“Toxicology found trace amounts of sedatives. The good stuff, too. Not chemicals someone could find at the supermarket.”

“It was a killer with resources at his disposal, then. Wealthy. Intelligent.” Hannibal studied the photos sprawled out along his desk. He eyed various close-ups of the corpse and the notes attached. The soft taps against the windows told the men the rain hadn’t stopped from earlier in the day, but Will began to find the noise comforting now, as he spoke with Dr. Lecter.

Will was up above, browsing his colleague’s extensive collection of books on the second floor. His finger traced the spines of medical textbooks and first edition prose. He liked it up there, especially when stressed. It wasn’t a power play _per se_ , but after sticking his nose in cases he’d really rather not thanks to Jack, it felt good to feign dominance over someone else, even if that someone was the stoic psychiatrist.

“I gave Jack my leads. Investigators are looking into the man’s house, his family.”

Hannibal looked up at Will. “You believe his wife did this?”

“Not all killers break into homes.” Will glanced back. “Sometimes they live inside them. His kids are old enough to want their father dead, but they’re still too young to do anything about it.”

He gave a fond smile, his eyes coming to life with something Will couldn’t identify. “It must be such a pleasure, Will, to live inside your head.”

At that, he gave a weak, bitter laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe the kids _are_ smart.”

A grumble of thunder sounded over Hannibal’s office building, and like clockwork the rain against the windows started to pick up in force and weight. Will continued his trek down the narrow path, coming to a stop at the corner where an elegantly carved wooden chair stood poised by the books. Parchment paper was piled neatly on its seat.

“Either way,” Will continued browsing the various book titles, sidestepping around the chair, but still bumping into it. “the certainty of this case is a new, but welcomed concept for me.” He glanced briefly behind him, noticing Dr. Lecter rearranging the notes and photos of the current case, as though to find validation in Will’s theory. “I’m not used to clear cut, waiting for lab tests and forensics to tell me something I already know.” He took another step down the hall, but stopped when he felt paper under his shoe. Some of Lecter’s sketches fell off the chair, and Will gave an uneasy glance back down at Hannibal, hoping he hadn’t noticed the fumble.

Quickly, he crouched down, collecting the parchment; vaguely processing how talented Hannibal was as an artist. “Normally,” Will continued, “it’s the….” A sketch in particular caught his eye. He swallowed. “…other way…around.”

“The Ripper,” Hannibal casually noted, still arranging the file before him on the desk.

“Yeah…I just don’t….uh-” Blinking, disbelieving, Will let go of a sketch and grabbed another one. And another. And another. They were all immaculately drawn, down to the last detail. But Hannibal’s talent of light contrast and aesthetics didn’t cause Will’s head to implode. Every sketch, every portrait was a victim of the Chesapeake Ripper. Their bodies portrayed the exact manner of how they died, down to the peaceful facial expressions and positioning of limbs. Will knew this wasn’t just a morbid pastime of Hannibal’s, he didn’t just steal case photos and sketch them. There was an uncomfortable intimacy here. Surgeon precision. Unnerving accuracy.

Holy. _Shit_.

Will’s mind spiraled. Garrett Jacob Hobbs --him knowing they were coming, the copycat killer, the Stagman in the forest, the medical background, the wolf in sheep’s clothing-

“Will?”

It was hard to breathe, his chest oddly constricting. A shiver rolled over him.

Hannibal glanced briefly before doing a double-take. Will looked to be suffering from some sort of panic attack, leaning against a bookshelf and struggling to compose himself. Hannibal tried again, pressing. “Will? Are you alright?”

Genuinely concerned, the psychiatrist marched over to the corner of the office, his objective to console his client enduring an apparent meltdown. But as he climbed the ladder, he heard Will’s frantic steps. That didn’t necessarily alarm him. What _did_ alarm him, however, were the frenzied hands reaching the ladder’s edges, the grunt of exertion from pushing, and the sudden sensation of weightlessness as he felt himself falling backwards.

Time seemed to slow as Hannibal processed, incredulously, at the implication of Will’s actions. He had been mistaken, obviously, at the cause of Will’s panic attack. The crash was unavoidable, but relatively painless. He hit the edge of a small table, the ladder landing over half of his body. He wasn’t hurt, or, at least, he didn’t show it as he slowly lifted himself back up. Hannibal fixed his suit jacket, dusting himself off at the shoulders.

With a casual voice, he said, “I assume you found something.”

Terrified, betrayed, not having to use his imagination on what Hannibal would do to him if he caught him, Will felt adrenaline already rock his body. He watched as his once-friend recovered from the fall, breathing in shallow swallows. _What now? What the hell do I do now?_

Hannibal glanced at the ladder, noting that it didn’t break, no it was too sturdy for that, but he honestly hadn’t considered Will panicking so thoroughly as to deface his property. It caught him off guard. He looked back up at the flustered Will Graham, and realized the interesting turn of events. This would certainly be mildly bothersome-

The thought halted the moment a book flew past him, landing with its spine bent and laying facedown and open on his polished floor.

“I trusted you!”

Hannibal watched, agape, as Will turned around to grab precious textbooks from his own shelves, hurling them at him with a furious hand. Having to move away from the onslaught, he made his way toward the overturned ladder with a new goal. He grabbed the heavy thing --a fleeting memory of the moving-staff cursing as two men attempted to prop it up crossed his mind-- but Hannibal promptly gave up his second idea in record time when a rather thick hardback smacked into his head.

He stood his ground, glaring at the upset Will above him. He kept his reserve as he spoke, his tone relaxed. “Do not do this, Will. I have no intention of harming-”

Having a discussion was something Will didn’t want anymore. Apparently.

“It was always you!” Will blindly grabbed more texts behind him, eyes livid with both fear and anger, though anger seemed to win in the ranks. “You’re a psychiatrist, you’re-! You’re my friend, Hannibal!” He dodged most of the books thrown at him, though he didn’t bother with the ones aimed at his legs. He eyed one text laying in particular, scowling as he picked it up and fixed its spine. He held it under his arm, taking another step.

“No!” Will threw another book and Hannibal had to awkwardly duck down in order to miss it. “You get near that ladder and I’ll just keep throwing-!” Will paused, eyeing the oddly colored hardcover in the mix of boring medical journals. It was a comic collection. Will had disregarded the horrific depictions of the Ripper’s murders and instead decided to hold up _Garfield Weighs In_ , giving his homicidal psychiatrist a look of confusion, his expression a silent " _really_?"

Hannibal, frustrated, could only shrug as he set a pile books onto his desk. “Everybody hates Mondays, Will.”

The FBI agent threw it particularly hard, watching Hannibal as it hit the desk and crashed into his lamp. Will refused to see Hannibal as a human anymore, as a person who cared for his mental well being. This was a wolf wearing a person suit.

_I have no interest in understanding sheep, only eating them._

_Will sat, slumped, as he watched Hannibal take out recently crafted soup and side dishes from the plastic containers. It looked delicious, the steam still coming off the broth._

_I never feel guilty about eating anything._

_Will watched as Hannibal exited his kitchen, holding a tray of fine class cuisine he probably couldn’t pronounce the name to. With Jack sitting across from him, the three discussed the details of the most recent case, with a man missing both his liver and heart._

_It’s nice to have an old friend for dinner._

_Will chewed the pork, biting into the tender meat that was spiced mildly, savoring the taste of something he never had the pleasure of feeling on his tongue before. Hannibal sat across from him, watching Will as he sipped his wine._

_I have my own butcher, and I like to oversee the process personally._

_It fucking rhymes._

Twice in ten minutes Will felt bile rise. Hannibal was at his desk, far away enough for Will to deem safe, so he leaned back against a near-empty shelf to catch his breath. He eyed the trashcan halfway across the room, on the ground floor. He swallowed, knowing he wouldn‘t, _couldn’t_ vomit. He hadn’t eaten anything that entire day, but he had planned to, after the appointment, because Hannibal had invited him back to-

Will jerked forward, clutching his stomach and bending over, trying to rid the thought that consumed his head. Consume- he consumed a lot, didn’t he? And Jack and Alana and Frederick and Abigail-

His dry heaves were over the second he felt a tremor along the balcony, and looked to see the ladder back in its place. He grunted, moving swiftly as Hannibal took the first step up. He grabbed the edges once again, threatening the other man with his body language. Hannibal wasn’t deterred by Will physically, they both knew he would win in a game of brawn, but he also knew he should probably get off the damn ladder if Will intended to throw it back down again. Acquiring a sore back or broken neck wasn’t a priority. Ever.

Slowly, he backed away, eyes dark, and watched yet again as Will sent the thing toppling to the ground, creating scuff marks and an earsplitting crack.

“Stop this, Will. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“ _Stop this_?” Will snapped, throwing another book for good measure. “All you’ve ever done is try to stop me!”

Hannibal looked at Will despairingly. “I kill the uncivil, Will, those who are in polite company and can’t be bothered by it.”

“What the hell does that mean? Is your secretary missing because she didn’t say _bless you_ when you sneezed?”

“Problem solving is hunting. It’s a savage pleasure and we are born into it.” Hannibal dodged yet another book, ignoring the urge to pick up the first edition hardback, and instead focused on Will. “If you keep throwing my collections Will, I may assemble enough to stack them and climb up that way.”

“I trusted you!” Will swallowed the lump in his throat that he hoped wasn’t more vomit. He grasped the railing, chest rapidly falling and rising. “Jack trusts you. They all do. What was your plan, Hannibal? Or,” he blinked, whispering, “did it just amuse you? All of this?”

“Let us talk, Will.” Hannibal clasped his hands behind his back, his guard finally down now that Will wasn’t near any bookshelves. His hair was slightly tousled from the experience, but he faced much more frantic responses from prey in the past. “This is a consulting room, after all. And as long as you’re here, we’re still on your time. We can discuss your recent breakthrough. I could help you through it-”

“-don’t want your help through shit!”

“Do you want to talk about what you found?”

“Oh, what? Your murder doodles?” Will was mockingly oblivious, pointing a thumb towards the cluster of sheets laying by the chair a few feet away. “Did you want me to find them?”

Hannibal, though calm and collected, let a prominent frown grace his features. He gestured to the mess around him with a limp hand. “Not particularly. No.”

“Well, Christ, Hannibal, invest in a safe. Store them away at your house.”

“Will, I understand you feel a sense of deep betrayal. A disloyalty I have proven quite profoundly and you-”

“I’m not coming down. Not until you leave so I can contact someone.”

“Of course. But you must understand my position as well. I cannot allow you to do that.”

“Sure you can.” Will used a hand and pointed toward the exit. “Just walk out that door.”

“I am not leaving my office.”

“This isn’t an office anymore, Hannibal. And you‘re not my psychiatrist, my colleague, or my friend. Stop acting like it.”

“You’re bordering on hostile tendencies, Will. Your argument is unsound.”

“Your tie is ugly.”

 

**8:00PM**

The fireplace crackled and a few sparks popped before gently falling, the flares growing dim as they landed on cool marble. It was well past the early evening hours, the rain seeming to grow stronger as the skies became darker. Hannibal sat at his immaculate desk, neat piles of books surrounding him along the floor, as he continued to write notes in a notebook. His suit jacket was abandoned, folded neatly on the back of his chair.

“You will have to come down eventually.”

Will stood leaning against the railing, directly behind Hannibal, watching the doctor’s back from above. He eyed the large room, specifically the empty space there the ladder once stood, before looking back at who he now called the Chesapeake Ripper. The fact that he was comfortably seated wasn’t going to fool Will. He knew how fast Hannibal could be if he wanted to. Even if Will jumped from the balcony and somehow didn’t acquire a broken or sprained ankle, he’d still have to escape the office. Jumping through the window wasn’t going to do shit, and surviving a stroll over to the door wasn’t likely, nor was even making it through the waiting room and reaching the front door.

Observing the room, studying it and trying to see what he could use to his advantage, Will had to stifle a surprised intake of air when he spotted his cell phone. It sat along the table by his usual chair, forgotten by both parties until now. If Will could just reach his phone, just speed-dial Jack, just utter Hannibal’s name, that would just be fan-fucking-tastic.

“I can prepare you something, if you’re so adamant on staying up there.” Again, Hannibal didn’t even turn around to address Will behind him. Not one glance or curious peek. It was as though he spoke to a spoiled child. Will grimaced. He knew Hannibal was just trying to get him to speak, but he fell into the trap willingly.

“I’m never eating anything you _prepare_ again.”

A pause. Then, “You mentioned on numerous occasions you enjoyed my cooking, Will. You had even expressed delight, prior to your discovery, about our dinner tonight.”

Well, the dinners had been pretty damn delicious. Fuck.

“I’m not eating _people_ , Hannibal.” Will couldn’t tell if the anger was at himself for the fleeting betrayal. “Just because someone violates your moral code doesn’t mean I should taste them too.”

A low, long sigh made Hannibal’s back slump. “If you’re not comfortable with the food I prepare, I could order you something.”

“And if the pizza guy’s late, are you going to eat him?”

“You’re overreacting, Will.” He dropped his pen, looking over his shoulder to find a disheveled bundle of flannel and khakis against the railing. So quickly, Will could resemble one of the stray dogs he always took in. Roughed up and lost. “Water, at least? A glass of wine?”

“No thanks. I don’t feel like being roofied.”

Though Will was too bitter and flustered to carry civil conversation, he wasn’t entirely joking with the wine. He didn’t want to take the chance of getting unnecessarily sleepy, nor add to small pressure already growing in his bladder. He decided to change the subject, not wanting to dwell on drinks. Or liquids. Especially the image of them being poured.

“Don’t psychiatrists have to go through a string of extensive testing? How did you fall through the cracks?”

“I didn’t.” Hannibal answered. The movement of his arm told Will he continued his notes. “I was already a surgeon with an indisputable reputation.”

“The pieces just fell into place.” He sighed, letting his forehead rest on the railing. He remembered telling Hannibal, the day they formally met, that he didn’t find him that interesting. He understood the smile the doctor had given him now. And why he had caught him sniffing his shoulder. Will shuddered.

 

**9:00PM**

“I would like for you to walk me through what happened up there, Will. What went through your head when you found my sketches.”

“Are you still experiencing hot flashes? Chills?”

“Will, I need you to tell me if you have any chest pain. Prolonged anxiety attacks can be severely disabling.”

Hannibal turned in his desk chair, giving a pained stare to where he knew Will was, but couldn’t see from his angle. He could smell the man’s unease radiating off him like a dog in heat. It was near maddening, however --each time Hannibal tried to calm Will down, try to be his anchor again, it seemed to just make Will’s condition even worse. In the last hour, the man had resorted to simply ignoring him. His sarcasm and bitter words weren’t appreciated before, but no attention at all was even more disheartening.

The fine leather notebook seemed to purposely catch his eye.

Hannibal glanced at it, then at Will.

 

Will was curled in the corner of the library, his legs propping up some informative, stale book on standardizing medical producers, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His stomach growled, though he could ignore the beginnings of hunger easily. His bladder made his positioning uncomfortable, but an easy belt adjustment solved that issue --for now. He tried not dwell on it. It was Hannibal’s prying voice that made him indignant. Made him shut it out. Maybe if Hannibal got so aggravated, he’d just leave the office and-

A soft sound perked Will’s ears. He looked above the hardcover. Just a few feet away was an open notebook and pen, and Will leaned over just enough to catch Hannibal stepping down from a chair he used to elevate himself.

“This is still your time, Will.” He said. “Perhaps you would like to _write_ to me what you’re feeling, if you’re deciding to ignore me.”

To Hannibal’s surprise, Will immediately grabbed the posh notebook. A quick scribble of ink soon followed. It dropped, gracefully, on the chair below.

Hannibal looked at the trap he just fell into, pausing for a moment, but then tentatively reached to grab it.

_Go eat a dick._

Hannibal grimaced. “There is no need to resort to immaturity, Will.”

 

**10:00PM**

Will continued his stubborn streak, Hannibal continued to know this was a game with a predestined winner. Still, though, he hadn’t counted on Will’s persistent behavior.

Hannibal sat in his appointed chair, exasperated, hands lifeless on the armrests as he stared at the empty seat across from him. The fireplace was dark, a pile of cool ash settling like the one in his stomach. He would have to throw out the meal he had prepared hours ago in the kitchen. His stomach curled, empty, the glass of wine he began to sip earlier remained at his desk. Wine on an empty stomach was not ideal.

“I hate you.”

Hannibal let his eyes drift up from the chair, meeting Will’s blank face. He too was seated, but on the upper floor, knees up to prop his arms. “I say that as a fact. Not out of anger.” He continued. “You’re the Chesapeake Ripper, and I hate you.”

Hannibal felt a sudden surge of energy, Will giving him something to work with. “Hate is one of the strongest emotions we feel. Certain circuits in the brain that houses the physical nature of hate, has also been shown to house other, similar feelings of intensity. Such as love. They are both, in fact, intimately linked.”

His insight was met with a glare, and Will’s eyes became single-handedly the only source of light in the entire office. “Do you think I have a _crush_ on you?”

Hannibal exhaled through his nose, feeling his chest fall. It didn’t help the aggravation gnawing at him, though Hannibal couldn't decide if the aggravation stemmed from Will’s ill-timed discovery or the fact he allowed such an obscure situation unfold at all. They stared at each other with the fallen ladder between them, sleep not trickling into either of their consciousness.

 

**11:00PM**

The keys were pressed with talented timing and excellent precision, fingers dancing along the board in a mesmerizing flow where it was a miracle they didn’t tangle or mess up. Occasionally, the hands would stop, and add on a few more notes to the once-blank sheets on the stand.

Hannibal could very easily lose himself when he discovered music.

He never considered it composing, that was too static for what he tried to create through the harpsichord. The tone of the work was soothing, supposed to bring out a sense of tranquility. This was purposeful. While Hannibal could remain awake by exerting himself with a hobby, Will would have no choice but to listen and, hopefully, fall into a sleep his body desperately needed. Hands found their place back on the keys, playing the notes as his head gently followed the rhythm with subtle nods. But a different stimulus made his fingers abruptly stop. His nostrils involuntarily flared from the acidity. And when the music ceased, his ears picked up on the noise --something like water dribbling out of a faucet.

Hannibal hunched a little, looking at the yellow stream from the corner of his eye. It had been aimed, poorly, at the wastebasket near by. His reserve slightly cracked.

“You’ve already damaged my first editions, Will. You could have spared my carpet.”

 

**Midnight**

“Today, we’ll be eating Trevor.”

Will looked through books that he hadn’t tossed, finding, perhaps, in hopes of finding any more evidence tying Hannibal to the Ripper, trying to understand the man through the books he collected and read. He flipped through a book called _The Clinical Neurology of Aging_ , muttering to himself. “Trevor doubled-parked his Hummer H2 across two handicapped parking spots and a crosswalk. Let’s see if he tastes better than he drives.”

A loud buzzing brought Will out of his cooking show nightmare, and he turned to find Hannibal looking at the source. His cell phone rattled against the small glass table, still in its place beside the cushioned chair, having gone undetected for so long. Both men watched as the phone buzzed, its screen flashing.

From his seat, Hannibal looked up at Will, not letting the other man look away as he stood and walked the short distance to the phone. With one little push of a button, the sound stopped. He slipped the device in his pants pocket.

Will frowned.

“Your dogs must be hungry, Will.”

“My dogs can’t use the phone, Hannibal.”

The pinched expression on the doctor’s face made Will relent. “I fed them before I came here.” He rubbed the back of his head. “If I come down, you’ll kill me and they’ll go hungry anyway.”

“I will not harm you.” Hannibal pressed. Crossing his arms, he languidly approached the space below Will and craned his neck. “You have trusted me with many things. You have to trust me on this as well. If I would have wanted to kill you, Will,” he spoke slowly, “I wouldn’t have orchestrated a production like this.”

Will remained unfazed. “You like to play with your food before you eat it?”

Hannibal stared for a brief moment, before glancing at the ceiling. He seemed to seriously consider the question. Curious, Will watched Hannibal‘s lips curl in a small smile. “Only you, Will.”

 

**1:00AM**

The entire office was dark, save for the small lamp on Hannibal’s desk. It sported a large dent, one Will felt proud for making. Hannibal didn’t deserve nice things.

He laid out, sprawled, along the upper floor, using his arm for a makeshift pillow and brown jacket as an improvised blanket. He wasn’t tired. Will knew he hit the sweet spot of fatigue, currently going through a period of blissful alertness. Much to Hannibal’s dismay, he was sure.

He watched Hannibal's profile, eyes bright, as the doctor made himself busy at his desk. Minutes prior, the man tried to get him talking about the current case again. Will wouldn’t have it. Every question Hannibal asked about the man hung from a willow tree, Will would ask something about his own kills. The game ended as soon as it begun.

It looked as though Hannibal was reading through old case files, or maybe they were his own case files- the narcissistic asshole. Behaviorally, don’t all serial killers fall under that description?

Will studied the way Hannibal read, his fingers grasping the papers edges under the light. His eyes caught something else then, and Will cocked his head.

 

“Hannibal.”

“Yes, Will?” He didn’t look up from his papers.

“There’s a rat.”

He shuffled through the files, pen caught between two fingers. “No. There isn’t.”

Will sat up, rubbing his eyes before looking back down. It was totally there, though. Slowly scurrying along the wall opposite, against the wooden paneling. It dodged cabinets and antique chairs. Will knew Hannibal possessed a keen sense of smell, so how couldn’t he smell the stench of what had to be sewer garbage and shit?

Half disgusted by its thick tail and half curious as to how it escaped the rain and managed to sneak into the office, Will watched the fat rodent scamper in the dark.

“Hannibal. There’s a rat in your office. It's by the globe.”

He was surprised when the doctor actually paid no attention to his statement. He continued to sort through documents.

“Hannibal, there’s a fucking rat.”

“Will, I have a feeling if I turn to look at your imaginary rat, I’ll gain a concussion from one of my medical textbooks.”

Will’s mouth slacked. He looked back at the thing, staring as it skittered away to someplace hidden, free to come and go as it pleased. What he wouldn’t give to be that rat.

 

**2:00AM**

The clock was difficult to read. It wasn’t only on the wall directly opposite of Will, but it was utterly dark. Even moonlight had a troubling time filtering through the drapes.

Squinting through his lenses, Will estimated it was growing closer to two in the morning. With the help of anxiety and a surge of adrenaline anytime Hannibal so much as lifted a hand, he wasn’t the least bit tired. Sleeping meant dying. For what felt like hours Will stared at Hannibal, and the man stared back, both trying to outlast each other. So, naturally, he was immensely suspicious and surprised when he saw what was Hannibal nodding off in his chair.

Will blinked, thinking that his eyes had played a trick on him, but the scene was the same. Hannibal was seated, his legs still crossed and hands still clasped in his lap, but his head rested against the cushion. Eyes were closed and breathing was slow. He had never seen the doctor sleep before, and knowing now that he was the Ripper, maybe this was what it looked like. Even unconscious, the man possessed a certain grace. Killing, cooking, sketching, and sleeping. Hannibal could probably make waiting in traffic look attractive.

He stared for a minute, counting to sixty in his head, before he figured Hannibal wasn’t just pretending. Even psychopaths had to sleep. From his place on the floor, Will cautiously scooted a few inches, gently raising and lowering his feet as he inched toward the empty space where the ladder used to stand. Every motion he made, an ample pause followed, eyes never leaving the sleeping cannibal.

Then, stupidly, his hand came into contact with a discarded book. He bumped it, the soft sound easily carrying through the room. But Hannibal did not stir. He continued the cautious crawl, creeping slowly until he made it to the open ledge. He dangled his legs, hands gripping the edge, and he looked at the distance between Hannibal and the door. It was a stupid idea, but the best one he had. He wasn’t going to pull a comedy-cop stunt and try to pull his phone from Hannibal’s pocket. Now _that_ was just stupid.

He looked below him, eyeing the piles of books Hannibal had purposely laid to make any sort of jump tricky. _Yeah, and this wasn’t stupid_.

The rain had stopped, so absolutely nothing could muffle the sound of his landing. He’d have to leap, make a swift landing, then dash for the door and maybe grab some sort of weapon to try to defend himself. Hannibal had a scalpel or two on his desk, a tool used for sharpening pencils. Will wondered if he ever used them on a person, it’d be so easy to cut the flesh, so familiar in Hannibal’s practiced hands.

He scooted closer to the edge, his ass practically falling off, but just as he was about to project himself off the balcony, the gleam of Hannibal’s eyes made him sputter.

Will pushed himself back, pulling his legs up. Instinctively , frantically, he grabbed a book from behind him and threw it. The sound of it hitting the floor brought him out of his fright.

“Christ-!” He breathed, “Fuck you.”

  

**3:00AM**

Will sat on the floor, leaning against the railing. His forehead had indents from the carved wood, his feet hanging off the ledge, black socks heavy with the heat radiating off him. Shoes laid discarded close by. Hannibal leaned against the front of his desk, reading a book Will had managed to knock into a shoulder blade earlier.

He stared at the doctor, limp, but defiant. “How did you plan to do it?”

Hannibal continued to look at the book, through his eyes had stopped scanning the page. “Do what?”

“Kill me. You were going to. Eventually. Right?”

“No.” He turned a page. “That was never my intention. I wouldn’t have killed you, and I will not kill you. Not someone I find fascinating. I only eat the rude, Will. I wouldn’t consider you a member of that particular group. Not until you decided to urinate on my carpet.” It was a joke -well, Hannibal’s version of one. Maybe. His face was stoic as he turned up to face the other man. “I understand you’re in a difficult place right now. I’m willing to overlook your recent behavior and just chalk it to a mild anxiety attack.”

Will blinked, slowly, like a cat. “You probably wouldn’t want to eat me anyway. I’m anxious all the time. I’d probably taste bitter.”

“It depends on the meat. I’d imagine you would taste divine.”

  

**4:00AM**

“You may sleep soundly, Will. I will not harm you.”

“Yeah. And I’ll wake up without a leg.”

 Will pinched his arms. He jittered his feet along the floor, tapping it to a tune he didn’t know. He slapped himself, but that didn’t help at all, just made him momentarily dizzy and feel stupid.

He didn’t understand how Hannibal did it, just sat in his chair and practically twiddled his thumbs. The man functioned like a machine, running on gasoline. No, running on people. Their lungs, livers, hearts.

Will leaned against a bookshelf. “ _I’m Henry the eighth, I am. Henry the eighth, I am, I am_.” He whispered the melody, desperate for any kind of mental stimulus. “ _She’s been married seven times before. And every one was an Henry. She wouldn’t have a Will or a Sam. I’m her eighth old man. I’m Henry, Henry the eighth I am-_ ”

“Did you know…”

Will stopped his murmuring, eyes flicking down to the man.

“…Henry the eighth was a pursuer of medicine? He was noted to self-medicate, actually having written a collection of remedies of his own. Many treatments were before his time. He sold his solutions of common ailments to the public, and went on to become a very renowned author on his own right. Not only because of his title. Another book of his, Defense of the Seven Sacraments, opposed the Catholic Church. It is regarded as one of the most triumphant pieces of Catholic polemics produced. ”

“That’s fantastic.”

“The book went through twenty editions in Europe. You used my copy as a Frisbee.”

  

**5:45AM**

“Will.”

He laid along the small balcony, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Will.”

He grunted, lifting himself up. What caught his attention were the windows, but in his sleep-deprived mind, it took him a few moments to understand why.

Soft light began to spill in from the drapes, the sound of morning doves cooing just outside. Dawn.

Will rubbed his eyes. Hannibal moved since his place by in his chair, now standing by the chaise he used for therapy. Just seconds ago he was- Will blinked, coming to a stand quick enough to make him lightheaded. He found that the ladder was back in its place.

Confused, flustered, he looked down, patting his arms for injection marks.

“You slept for forty minutes, Will. More than enough time for me to do anything.”

He stilled, looking back down at the doctor. “Then why didn’t you?”

“I want you to come down willingly. I want you to understand I will not hurt you.”

Will knew his options were limited. He knew his time was up.

Hannibal watched how Will’s shoulders slumped, how his bloodshot eyes lost luster, how his overall demeanor slackened greatly. He was submitting. Hannibal felt the man’s gaze on him as he walked toward his desk, putting more distance between them. He leaned against it with ankles crossed, the dark navy socks peeking through the trousers edges.

“I will stay here, Will.”

Hannibal had watched Will sleep earlier, thinking at first he was pretending, just as Hannibal did hours prior. But Will had an unguarded look to him as he slept, something he couldn’t fake while knowing he was in the presence of a serial killer. Hannibal played with the idea of just keeping Will up there, but knew it just wasn’t practical. Even he felt the plague of fatigue overcome him, his head growing heavy and his suit more uncomfortable as each hour passed. Frankly, Hannibal couldn’t deal with this kind of shit much longer.

Will walked the green mile. No tremors wracked his body. No shivers branched down limbs or cold sweats emerged. He took the first step down, then turned. He looked at Hannibal keeping his promise, staying behind the desk.

Will sighed and took another step down. And another. Maybe he was stuck in the twilight zone, and the ladder would be never ending. Maybe that would be better than reaching the floor. Disappointment was evident on his face, but exhaustion was the dominant winner. When he reached the floor, he kicked at the closest pile of books. For Hannibal, he could now see the bags under Will’s eyes. And he watched, curious, as Will staggered a short distance to the opposing chairs they used for their sessions. Will collapsed in his usual chair, letting out a long exhale.

“Are you ready to continue your therapy, Will?”

A few moments passed. Will’s head fell back, his eyes closed. “Yeah.”

Hannibal rounded the desk. “Where would you like to begin?”

“I think…” Will sighed, “I hate Monday’s too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are delicious!


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